Aussies are essentially just rowdy Canadians + killer wildlife. We know what’s up in the (faaarrrrr) South 🍁

Tangerine Palpatine

malevolent slugs who turn you inside out alive: a childhood filled with sanitised soulless insubstantial kids books with weak forgettable plastic illustrations and no guts. (8/8)

printed horror show again. And again.

Our parents had no business giving us books like 𝘚𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘴. Boy I’m glad they did. Because there’s something even more terrifying for a hypersensitive six year old than blitzing slugs in blenders or being abdůcted from your bed in the night by giant (7/8)

It horrified and repulsed me and left me with feelings and thoughts I had no words for and nowhere to leave. So into my pneuma those slugs slept until, middle-aged and trauma-bonded, I immediately located a used copy online and had it shipped halfway around the world to relive the (6/8)

David Greenberg’s 𝘚𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘴 (1983) with Victoria Chess’ masterful illustrations traumatised me. It abůsed me. I was five or six when I first read it, and I read it over and over and over. It scared the shit out of me. (5/8)

With only that word and aura fast receding, I tapped 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 80𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 into my do-not-disturbed phone and insta-summoned a glorious google images tsunami of child gøre memories only Gen X and older can completely appreciate. (4/8)

So it was last midnight—indistinguishable from any other—nearly asleep, a whiff of a memory eras old wafted by. I don’t know what synapses had to line up to let the whiff in, nor what called them to or why, but suddenly sleepless I thought and felt 𝘚𝘓𝘜𝘎𝘚. (3/8)

adult life in peculiar wonderful excruciating ways. Others have gouged a repository for themselves in my longest term memory where they sleep and creep so dormant so still that decades can pass until they’re uncovered unexpected while innocently looking for something else entirely. (2/8)

giant malevolent slugs who turn you inside out alive: a childhood filled with sanitised soulless insubstantial kids with weak forgettable plastic illustrations and no guts. (8/8)

printed horror show again. And again.

Our parents had no business giving us books like 𝘚𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘴. Boy I’m glad they did. Because there’s something even more terrifying for a hypersensitive six year old than blitzing slugs in blenders or being abdůcted from your bed in the night by (7/8)